Breaking Out
by Acharion
Summary: In which Fingon makes an abrupt departure and an explanation for the harp is given.


Obviously I own none of this...on several levels.

Warnings for angst (of course), pissy Nolofinwëans (who are the best kind of Nolofinwëans), some adult-ish language, threats of cousin-on-cousin violence and allusions to kinslaying...in other words, just the normal stuff for this fandom.

Maitimo=Nelyo=Russandol=Maedhros

A/N at the end

* * *

Then Fingon, the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war...alone and without the council of of any, he set for in search of Maedhros; and aided by the very darkness that Morgoth had made he came unseen into the fastness his foes.

* * *

I can feel that familiar fever of anger and betrayal burning hot in my veins again, making me do stupid and foolish things that I suspect I'll regret later.

The whole idea of a hunting trip had been Finrod's idea, probably a poor attempt to cheer my brother and playing at being back in Valinor. I knew it was well intentioned though and had readily agreed to come along, so I shouldn't be overly critical of it. But I should have known better than to put myself in a position where I could so easily slip away. The idea of heading North has been ruminating in my mind for months now (where it should have safely stayed) and that orc attack had proved too convenient of a distraction for me not to seize the opportunity. I can hear Turgon screaming my name in the distance, foul fumes that must surely be of Morgoth's making muffling his cries a bit. I can hear the anguish and fear in his voice and I'm sorry for that, but it seems a bit late to turn back now. I've run too far to return red-faced and sweat soaked and tell them that for an idiotic moment I'd thought it would be a good idea to rescue my missing cousin.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My brother and cousin and I were sitting around the campfire just minutes ago. We'd been piling logs on the flames, stoking them higher and higher despite the fact that the darkness of the night seemed to be settling in deeper than usual. It crept over us so slowly that I don't think any of us realized it was something unnatural until it was too late to get back to our encampment safely. That was when the attack came, when the gloom seemed thickest, shrill laughter and hideous garbled speech looming up out of the shadows around us. There must have been a dozen of them, suddenly swarming at us. My sword was out before I even realized I'd unsheathed it. Orcs, I thought blackly, were easier to kill than elves.

We danced in the strange steps of death-dealing for a while, the flames of our ineffectual fire at our backs, black and deadly sharp blades cutting through the air at our faces. We spilled the blood of our foes, making quick work of the beasts that Morgoth sent for us. There were a few more in the distance I thought, lurking behind the trees and I'd sped forward. Out of the ring of firelight, away from the side of my kin. I had been right, thankfully, and I laid waste to those waiting in silence.

When I finished, it was completely dark around me. I couldn't see Turgon, and I couldn't see Finrod and some deep impulse had told me to run. Not towards that sad tented settlement we called home now, not back towards the firelight, but North. I'm sorry, brother, I don't have time for goodbyes at the moment.

Branches that I can barely see cut into my face and I feel the wind picking at my hair and besides Turgon's screaming I can only hear my ragged breath and the pounding of my boots on the cold ground and the thumping of my pack against my flank, that damned harp making noise with every step I take. When we were just going to spend a few nights hunting and making camp it had seemed like a good idea to bring, something to raise our spirits. Now it seems like a bloody waste of energy to carry. All the same I can't bring myself to stop and leave it, carried out of Valinor and across the Ice. Spared when we'd burned almost everything we had for any shred of warmth. I suppose it's coming with me then. Maybe it will be useful.

I can imagine how the conversation is going between Turgon and Finrod right now. Turgon is no doubt saying that he has to find me (even if he despises the Fëanorions, he found the abandonment of their brother just as appalling as I did), and Finrod is attempting to calm him, telling him that they'll search in the morning, that nothing can be done now. It's cruel, I know, to leave my brother thusly, my evaporation making him the heir to our House. Leave him under the assumption that I'm missing, maybe being turned into a thrall of Morgoth as they speak.

And if I happen to be successful, maybe that is how I'll find Maitimo, changed irreparably into some dark and foul thing that I'll have to slay in order to free. Maybe I'll never find him, and will have to return to my father's and my brother's anger with nothing to show for this foolish attempt at valiancy. Hell, I'm more scared of Aredhel's anger than I am of the others. But that doesn't matter now, I tell myself, I've already started on my way and I cannot turn back.

If things hadn't ended so badly between Maitimo and I, if his brothers had done the respectable thing and even _tried_ to save him, if I wasn't still so fucking angry with him then maybe I wouldn't feel this pathetic need to go after him. But they did, and they didn't and I was, and even if I found a hollow shell of my former friend I wanted to bring him back so that I could have words with him. So that I could tell him to his smug bastard face what it meant when we saw those ships burning on the horizon.

And when we're reunited, if things remain anything like they used to be, I'll probably spend half an hour spouting off every foul word I know while he placidly stares at me. Right before he offers reserved and distant and infuriating commentary to me on my own feelings.

Son of a bitch, I think, making me angry before I've even gotten close to Angband. Maybe I should just plan on punching him in the face and being done with it. I'd love to see how Nelyo's legendary patience fares with that tactic.

But besides how satisfying that all may be, finding him just seems like the right thing to do. Maglor seems unable to correct things between our people, even while he meekly suggests our reuniting. I know he doesn't have the mettle within him to do what must be done. Maybe Maitimo does.

And for my own people, it seems that since we watched the flowers bloom at our feet that we've all just been holding in our screams, gnashing our teeth in silence for the trials we endured. But everyone remains quiet and I feel in part that I have to do this for all of them. Perhaps with Fëanor dead the target of our anger has disappeared. The same anger lays buried in me, strangled in my chest, and tonight I refuse to let it lay at peace anymore.

There has to be a better way than the road we have been travelling down. There is something so terribly wrong in our existence here, our current state, and my blood is boiling with the desire to tear it all down, to burn through all the faked pleasantries and formalities until things are put back into place. After all the killing and destruction and death I'm tired of constantly feeling like I'm giving up and giving in. But there's hardly any use in trying to make changes with all the same people in place. I want things to be different, and maybe, like my cousins, I don't know where to begin but perhaps this fruitless quest is what is needed to bring the Noldor back together.

That's really what's been stewing in my mind, the idea that I could fix everything with this venture. It's ridiculous, of course, because even I don't really anticipate that Nelyo's miraculous return could mend all the wrongs that have been committed against us. But all the same, I find I'm still running, and I'm still running North, and my course hasn't strayed since this blistering idea first came into my mind.

The fumes are thick. They halt my breath and make it come in desperate gasps. I don't know how long I've been running, but my legs and my chest are burning and I'm practically choking in the blackened smog that lays upon our land. I think it's been hours since I left our camp when I finally collapse on the ground, struggling to get air in my lungs, exertion and this vapor overtaking me. I think I can see our new light on the horizon through all that troubled smoke.

I say a hollow prayer for my father, hoping he won't think too ill of me if I come home limping and blood-stained and empty-handed. If I come home at all. I say another prayer for Aredhel, turned from her natural exuberance to cold rock on the Ice. She doesn't cry anymore and I wonder if it's because of what they did to us. Oddly, my mind turns to Idril, who must now be tucked safely into her bed, and I say a prayer for her as well, so small, so young and her future carved out on the desolate landscape of the Helcaraxë. Don't be lost without me, I think, even though I know they'll carry forward if I never return, just as they have in the face of other, just as tragic losses.

Do the Valar even hear the prayers of Kinslayers? As I lay on the ground, rough grass scratching at my face and rocks poking into my back I find that I don't even care anymore. So, probably in vain, just an empty exercise in practiced recitation, I send up one more prayer to Varda, asking her for guiding light on this journey. That's all that I need, I think blearily, as sleep begins to overwhelm me. It's not safe to lie here, I muse, but a bit of guiding light is all that I need to be successful.

When I awake again the sky is still dark but the air has cleared slightly. The moon is gone for the time being, and even the stars don't shine down on me. But in the distance, to the North, towards my destination, lightning flashes in the sky. Light that Morgoth, not Varda, has made. No matter. My prayer is answered, although on slightly different terms than I had imagined, and it's all the light I need. I haul myself up and begin running again.

* * *

A/N

This wrote itself a little too easily after listening to The Protomen's "Breaking Out" on repeat. And since they are really just a Mega Man fanfiction band, it's really fanfic writing fanfic, which is kind of meta (or something).

And ship it all you like (and please keep doing so...I'll keep reading all that PWP) but I like to think that Fingon's journey was prompted ONLY by his desire to heal the divide between the Noldor and not by some undying love or sexual frustration. Political motivations are seem more hardcore.

I'm using everyone's Sindarin names here, except for Maedhros, still Maitimo or Nelyo at this point. I've seen it presented that his name was translated before he even got rescued, but I don't buy that. Your name is too personal for that, and I think they probably chose their own names. Besides, Maedhros doesn't even translate all that well, so I think he must have chosen it himself, out of parts of his old names.

PM me if you disagree with any of that.

Or agree.

Or whatever.


End file.
